


The Spiral Notebook

by Juul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossdressing, Diary/Journal, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juul/pseuds/Juul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam writes in a spiral notebook.</p><p><i>I never understood how people could be lovesick. Love is a good emotion, right? A happy one? It makes you feel all fluttery and excited and energetic? Fuck that. You shouldn’t believe all of the things you hear. Being in love is the worst. I can’t sit still for three goddamn seconds. I’m always wondering where Dean is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. I’m always waiting for him to come pick me up from school, or to come home from work. Whatever I’m doing, I want him there to help me with it, and once he’s there I become completely useless.</i> </p><p>Dean accidentally finds the notebook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spiral Notebook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonexistenz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/gifts).



> **Title:** The Spiral Notebook  
>  **Author:** hastendownthewinchesters  
>  **Artist:** nonexistenz, you’ve done an amazing job!  
> [The beautiful art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6073816)  
>  **Pairing:** Wincest  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** some self-harm and self loathing, crossdressing, incest and underage (Sam’s 17 when things start really heating up for him.)  
>  **Beta:** my friend @adamsdreamthief, thanks darling!  
>  **Notes:** Written for the Sam Winchester Big Bang 2016, thanks go out to the mods for hosting this wonderful event.

[](http://imgur.com/xZYytOH) \

There is no privacy that summer. There is only two identical duffel bags stuffed to bursting with handguns and clothes and hastily gathered mementos. That day, when Dean dives in in search of a pair of swimming trunks, is the first time it goes wrong. Later, he considers it a miracle that it never went wrong before, that he could always effortlessly tell the bags apart. But his hand is invading Sam’s personal space, the only personal space he has, before he even knows he’s doing it, and his fingers close around something smooth: a book. 

Dean is a secret reader. Sam always gets all the credit for being a brainiac, but Dad’s the only one who doesn’t know that Dean devours stories as eagerly as his brother, if not more so. Sam’s got a brilliant mind for logic and numbers, Dean is one to be sucked in by adventure. Unable to resist temptation, he pulls the book out of the bag and looks at it.

Except it isn’t a book, not really. It’s a spiral notebook, torn around the edges, with a black cover and a sticker on it that reads: “Sam Winchester’s Journal. Personal.” That should be all the warning he needs, really, except it isn’t. There is an immeasurable moment of hesitation. Then, Dean is suddenly reading his little brother’s diary, making himself comfortable in a cross-legged position on the double bed in the house they’re squatting in in Oklahoma.

Sam is swimming outside by himself.

_May 2nd, 1998  
I turned fifteen today. I told some people at school, and when Miss Seaborn heard me talking to them, she gave me this notebook. Technically it’s school property, but it was a leftover from last year. She gave it to me because she says I have a talent for writing. She’s an English teacher, so I bet she says that to all the kids. Anyway, my birthday was fine. Dad returned just in time from his Wendigo hunt nearby to have a piece of pie with us at the diner, and Dean had saved up to buy me a new book, whichever one I wanted. So now I’m reading The Catcher In The Rye again. I thought it would be nice to have my own copy, since it’s on reading lists wherever I go to school. Also, because I still can’t figure out why that guy is so obsessed with those ducks. Got to go now, Dean wants me to turn off the light._

_May 3rd, 1998  
There’s no point in me keeping a diary, really. Either my life is too boring for words, like it is right now, or there is so much happening at once that I can’t find a moment to write it down. It’s either high school, on which there is nothing interesting to say, or hunting, on which there is simply too much to say. And Dad has written all of that down in his journal already. Bye._

_August 13th, 1998  
I fucking hate August. I fucking hate summer. Why do we always have to be in cold places during winter and warm places during summer? Why don’t we do the California hunts in January and the Minnesota hunts in August? Why doesn’t anybody ever think of that? Right now we’re in Arizona (yeah, you got that right) and it’s nothing but a vengeful spirit. Honestly, I think I’ll die of boredom. And Dean keeps telling me to quit complaining about Dad, when all Dad ever does is complain about me. Fuck it all._

Dean remembered that summer. It was only two years ago, and Sam had been so angry and irritable all the time. He felt a little sick to his stomach, thinking about that time. It seemed like after those ghost hunts in Arizona, he and Sam had steadily begun to drift apart. These days, Sam seemed like your typical moody seventeen-year-old, but seeing him like that made Dean uneasy, like something was boiling just beneath the surface. Sam had closed in on himself, started hiding things, not just from Dad but from Dean, too. Apprehension filled him in an ice-cold wave. Could it really be this easy? Could he find out what was wrong with Sammy, what had gone wrong between him and Sammy, without having to ask him about it? Could he just read it in this notebook? No, he couldn’t justify that to himself. Heavy with a mix of guilt and curiosity, Dean tucked the notebook back in the duffel, slipped on his swimming trunks and went to join Sam at the lake.

******************************************************

That night, to keep his mind occupied, Dean stole Sam’s copy of _The Catcher In The Rye_ and sat up reading it until two AM, since Dad wasn’t around to make him turn in any earlier than that. Sam was right, it was a funny thing about those ducks. Sam was already warmly snuggled up to Dean and snoring softly when he decided to put the book away.

Of course, the trouble didn’t end there. Dean finished reading _The Catcher In The Rye_ over the next few days, and with nothing to occupy his mind, his thoughts circled back to Sam’s notebook. What answers could it possibly provide to Sam’s distant behavior? It wasn’t a physical distance per se, they shared motel beds and clothes same as always, it was just that Sam never really talked about anything anymore. Not friends, not homework, not anything else he was interested in. It seemed like the only two topics of conversation these days were food and hunts.

That night, feeling overheated and sleepy from the Oklahoma sun, Dean tightened his arm around Sam’s thin shoulder and steeled his nerve.

“How’ve you been, Sammy?”

Sam remained quiet for a good long time, his breathing soft but audible. He turned his head to get a better look at Dean’s face and squinted in the darkness.

“Fine,” his voice was soft. “Are you okay, Dean?”

This was exactly the problem. Why the hell could they only have a conversation if something was wrong?

“I’m fine, Sammy. I just wanted to know how you were doing,” he sighed. “Forget it. ‘Night, Sam.”

There was another long silence. Then, or maybe Dean just imagined it, an exhaled: “Oh.”

And a bit louder: “Night, Dean.”

***********************************

The next day, Dean gave Sam a couple of dollars of Dad’s money, since there was probably enough to last them till his return, and told Sam to walk to town. 

“If I have to reread one of those goddamned Penguin Pockets one more time, I swear to God I’ll lose my mind. Buy us a new book. Something cheap, and something I haven’t read before. I don’t care if it’s girly as fuck.”

That got a good giggle out of Sam, and a lot of confused looks. Sure, he was getting pretty bored himself, but there was a line, and romance novels were way over it. 

When Dean was sure Sam had left, he rolled over to Sam’s side of their bed and started digging through his duffel for the notebook. There was only the slightest bit of guilt gnawing at him. If this was what it took to restore his relationship with Sam, to get the warm, fuzzy feeling of talking to and laughing with his brother back, this was what he would do.

_August 15th, 1998  
Arizona is warmer than any place inhabited by human society has any right to be. I’ve barely spent an hour out of the water all day, and that hour was a big mistake. I was walking back to the house to have something to eat, but then I heard noises. The soft, moaning noises of a girl, in fact. Dean had a girl in our living room, and that was fine, since he’s nineteen years old and both Dad and I weren’t in. I turned around to go looking for food someplace else, but the house is a dump and you could literally hear their breathing through the front door._

_Dean made a low sound in his throat. I knew that sound. He makes it all the time when he’s jerking off while he thinks I’m asleep. But this time he was making it for that girl. He was making that sound because he was fucking that girl. I could hear the sofa creaking and, when I held my breath, I could even hear the soft slippery noises, the way a porno sounds when there’s no crappy dialogue or music._

_I should have walked away, I know I should have, but Dean was fucking her, and I’ve never fucked anyone, and from the sounds of it she was having a good time and I figured if I was very quiet, if I was very observant, I might pick up a pointer or two. Of course I was hard by then (I’m always hard these days) and I did my best to listen. The girl went:_

_“oh yeah, oh yeah, oh fuck yeah”_

_Her voice really annoyed me, because it sounded totally fake. I wanted to hear more of Dean. Then there was a swooshing sound, like maybe they changed positions, and the girl was silent. Over the sounds of their harsh breathing I could hear Dean mutter:_

_“God, doesn’t that look beautiful? Doesn’t that look absolutely gorgeous? You like that baby? Ass up in the air for me? So tight, so fuckin’ tight.”_

_Then the girls started her ridiculous squealing again and I bolted. I couldn’t shake the hard-on even when I went swimming again later. He’d been fucking that girl_ from behind.

Dean went cold all over, then hot, the way you do when you misstep while carrying something valuable. He remembered that girl, of course he did. She had been older, a waitress in a Flagstaff diner near where they’d been staying, gorgeous blonde, curly hair and full lips with bright red lipstick. Sam was right, she had been obnoxiously noisy. Noisy enough that it made Dean really uncomfortable that Sam had overheard them. He didn’t seem too upset though, he’d certainly never mentioned it. More importantly, the diary had more entries in it. Dean let curiosity get the better of him, and he read on.

_August 16th, 1998  
I jerked off last night thinking about Dean and that girl he was with. I saw her later, and she didn’t look nice at all. She seemed moody, and she was chewing disgusting pink gum. I wonder what she’s got to be moody about, since it looks to me like she had some spectacular sex. Maybe it’s different for girls, maybe they don’t like it as much? I wonder what it would be like to have a pussy. I know it gets wet when a girl is turned on, so I guess that means they must enjoy it. Would be very different, though, from having a cock._

_August 20th, 1998  
I haven’t seen the girl around again, and Dad’s come back. He says we’re going up North now. I’m unusually excited about that, because at least it’ll get us out of the heat. Dean doesn’t seem too hung up on the girl, he was eager to leave, too. I hope we can swing by Bobby’s soon. I miss Bobby. Mostly, I miss Redbeard._

_August 21st, 1998  
My prayers have been answered. We’re slowly but steadily moving towards Sioux Falls, and although Dad says ‘hunts are unpredictable, boys, can’t make any promises,” I’m pretty sure we’re heading towards Bobby’s._

_Dean has taken to sitting in the front with Dad. He says it’s just so he can help read the maps but I know the truth: he’s figured me out. He saw me listening to him with the bubblegum girl the other day and now he thinks I’m some kind of pervert. He’s always talking to Dad these days as though I’m not even there, always picking out the music he knows I hate. I fucking hate every piece of music in that godforsaken glove department._

_Fuck Dean, and fuck Dad, too. At least now I get to stretch my legs over the backseat and get some decent sleep for a change._

Dean was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that he was intruding, that he was trespassing. Sam was so unbelievably angry. He was angry at Dad, which made sense, but he was also so angry with Dean that it hurt, and angry with the world in a way that Dean just didn’t see any reason for. It was painful to read. But he couldn’t stop himself, he couldn’t help wondering what was going on inside Sam’s head back then. He decided that reconnecting with his brother was more important than a little bit of guilt, and he read on.

_August 22nd, 1998  
Sitting in a car is quite possibly the most boring thing that humanity has ever conceived. At least if I was behind the wheel, I’d have something to focus on. This way it’s really just miles and miles and miles of open road and changing from one uncomfortable sitting position into another. I can see that Dean enjoys it, he thrives on the open road, but I just hate how stiflingly hot it gets, and how sometimes we don’t see anyone but each other for hours. I wish I lived in one spot, where I really knew the people, or nowhere at all, where we knew no one who didn’t ride in the Impala with us. I can’t stand switching back and forth between being social and being a recluse. It’s driving me insane. I guess there is some point to keeping a diary, after all._

_August 23rd, 1998  
Sometimes our life isn’t all bad, you know. We arrived at Bobby’s today._

_Before we did, after the last rest stop, Dean joined me in the backseat. We were singing along to all of the songs of_ Born To Run, _(I must admit I quite like that one) tapping along with our fingers on the back of the seats and singing, Dean grinning like a complete idiot._

“Roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair  
Well, the night's busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere”

_I always hear those lines in Dean’s hoarse voice instead of the Boss’. Some days, it’s pretty good, you know. We have a home in the Impala. I have Dean all to myself there. His eyes can be so bright sometimes, because our hunting makes him feel free. We rolled down the windows and his hair became all ruffled and we made Dad turn the song up louder to hear it over the noise of the road, and he played it for us again and again. Now Dean and I are in our room at Bobby’s, and Redbeard is sleeping on my legs. He’s getting old, but his fur is still gorgeous._

_August 24th, 1998  
I’m in deep shit, it seems. It’s six in the morning and I’m wide awake and here’s why: Dean had an erection earlier and he sort of pushed it against my asscrack. Erections happen all the time with us, it’s no big deal. The problem is that I got hard when I felt Dean against me. That’s never happened before. I’m pretty vague on what gets me off, to tell you the truth. It’s not your average things, like girls and boobs and plasticky moans. I saw a porno once with an girl acting all fake and I didn’t enjoy it at all. I’ve considered that this might make me gay, but I don’t know. I guess if feeling someone rub their dick against you gets you hard, it probably means you’re gay. But it was Dean. I don’t know. I can’t sleep anymore, but I can’t jerk off right now either, and I can’t sneak out of the room. Dean will notice if I get up, and he’ll go haywire, start looking for a threat and checking the salt lines and then I won’t even want to jerk off in the bathroom anymore. Jesus fuck._

Dean could not remember this incident, but that wasn’t what bothered him. Was Sam gay? If he was, why didn’t Dean know about it? Hadn’t he figured it out in his head yet, wasn’t he ready to share? Or, and a little voice in his brain suggested this might be the case, didn’t Sam _trust_ Dean enough to tell him? The idea made him feel guilty, somehow, as though he had squandered Sam’s trust. He was also acutely aware that some time had passed since he’d opened the notebook, and Sam could return at any moment. Quickly, Dean tucked the notebook back into the duffel and went into the living room to switch on the TV. Right then, Sam walked in.

“Watcha get us?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes plastered to the TV.

“Promise not to hate me too much?”

Dean snorted. “I’ll make no such promise, princess.”

“I got the collected works of Jane Austen.”

Dean groaned. “You really _are_ a princess.”

“Hey,” Sam defended himself, “you said yourself you wanted it girly as fuck. This is about as girly as they come. Besides, it’s six novels, which means it’ll take ages to read, and it was only a dollar for all of them.”

“I didn’t say I wanted girly,” Dean grumbled. “But I guess you’re right.”

He took the set gratefully and didn’t notice that Sam had another book tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

***********************************  
It became a real problem after that, almost like an addiction. Dean would look at Sam, would see the hard angles of his elbows and his knees and the angry clench of his jaw, and he would become desperate with the need to know what was happening underneath. He wanted all of Sam’s secrets, wanted to see the parts of his soul that he kept hidden deep, he wanted it to be as effortless as it used to be. He wanted his brother back. He would go jittery with powerlessness and wait until Sam was asleep until he read from the notebook by the light of the streetlamp outside. 

It was tricky, because Sam would usually write a few paragraphs before he went to sleep, and Dean usually had to reach over his slender shoulders to the nightstand on the other side to grab the notebook. It was the most selfish thing he had ever done, to keep turning those pages when all of them were soaked through with Sam’s secrets, yet it was impossible to stop.

_August 25th, 1998  
Since it’s the middle of summer I can’t exactly go meet new people anywhere. I wish I could. I wish I could go back to Indiana, just for a little bit, so I could kiss Angie Roberts again. I didn’t have this diary when that happened, but I’ll write about it now._

_I didn’t know her. I’d seen her, the way you see pretty girls who wear t-shirts with The Smiths on them, the way you spot anyone brave enough to wear a bright yellow jacket. I was in the library, and I knew that she was there. We were all the way in the back of the room, and I could see her Docs peeking out from under the bookcases. She was looking at me, looking in a way that made me hot, and then she was walking around the bookcase and kissing me. It was crazy, because she did it with so much hunger, like she really wanted it, and then backed off and never talked to me again._

_All I could think about was Dean, and the way girls throw themselves at him all the time, like Angie randomly did that time with me. I don’t think she still would have done it, though, if she had known that Dean was my brother, if she had known that Dean existed._

_August 26th, 1998  
Dean’s got a job here. He’s fixing up cars at the local auto shop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. This morning he was up earlier than me and he was whistling while making us breakfast. He walked there, the whole twenty minutes in the suffocating heat, and he walked back in the afternoon, too._

_I want to rip my ears off of my head now. I would, but Dean would probably find a way to reattach them and then keep talking about the Corvette he fixed up earlier. Apparently, she was a wet dream come true. I can picture it, Dean under a bright red corvette, his legs and his jeans sticking out from under the hood, as well as the little sliver of skin you see when his henley rides up. It’s a miracle he hasn’t brought a girl home yet, looking like that._

_August 27th, 1998  
I brought Dean some lunch today. I didn’t have anything to do, I finished reading Sense  & Sensibility, and it was way too hot in the apartment. Sense & Sensibility is amazing, by the way. Elinor Dashwood kicks ass, but don’t tell Dean I said that. _

_I brought him a couple of sandwiches and some root beer, and I swear to god when I got there it was just like I pictured it. He was on his back under the car, and you could see his jeans and the little flat part of his stomach. I hadn’t pictured it with the hairs there, the lightest smattering of dark brown hairs, but when I saw them I thought: “Duh.”_

_Dean came out from under the car to greet me and he bent over the hood to grab a rag and clean his fingers with it. When I said I’d brought him a slice of pie from the diner, he gave me a grin that was brighter than the sun._

_I am in so much trouble and I don’t have the first clue how to deal with it._

_August 28th, 1998  
I had a dream last night. I’ll write it down here, because this diary is mine, but then I’ll never think of it again. I’m just getting rid of it, just putting it away._

_In the dream, it was just like yesterday afternoon at first. I came to the garage to bring Dean his lunch, and he slid out from under the car all sweaty and gross, and he grinned at me when he saw the pie. Then, I sank down on my knees and opened his jeans and took his cock in my mouth._

_What monsters do I know that plant dreams in your head? Maybe I should keep my eye out for one. I never thought about Dean’s dick before, certainly not about having it in my face like that, but right now it’s all I can think about. Since it was a dream, his cock was big but it fit into my mouth easily, and it tasted salty and warm and heavy and so, so good. I felt a bit like I was a girl, because I know this is what girls do for Dean._

_I know that, because he sometimes tells me. He told me the other day, about a blowjob he got, and there seem to be a lot of rules for that sort of thing. Firstly, you gotta use lots of spit to make it slick, and keep your teeth out of the way, and relax your throat, and don’t forget about the balls and all that. When I woke up, come was sticking to the inside of my boxers._

_Possible explanations for what the fuck is happening to me_  
something supernatural is influencing my dreams  
it is perfectly normal to have wet dreams about your brother, it’s just one of those things no one has ever bothered to tell me  
I actually want to blow Dean, in which case, I am severely fucked in the head 

Dean went hot all over with the strangest mix of apprehension and relief. On the one hand, his dick had gone painfully hard against his zipper, his breathing was labored, and he felt like he could fly. Maybe, just maybe, if this was what Sam really wanted, Dean could give it to him. Dean could make his Sammy so happy, so _loved_ , he had always known that he was the only one who could do it, had always known how badly he needed to take care of him. Maybe there were some crossed wires somewhere in the Winchester genes, and Dean wasn’t alone.

On the other hand, if this was true, if this was real, if this was what Sam wanted, Dean thought he might burn to cinders. There was a hurricane building up inside of him, such a deep feeling of love mixed in with awe and protective instincts because every single thing about his Sammy was so, so beautiful. It scared him, because if he allowed himself, if he let himself love Sam the way he had always wanted, after all those years of choking it down, the force of it might consume them both. 

They were always with Dad, of course. Dean couldn’t really reach out to Sam right now, no matter how badly he wanted to, because they were with Dad at the moment and if he got an inkling of what was happening, he’d shoot Dean in the head. There was no doubt about it. The thought of defying Dad like this, of permanently and finally choosing Sam over everything else, made him feel elated. He read on.

_August 29th 1998  
I’ve done my research. I am, after all and in spite of everything, my father’s son. There was almost nothing on sibling incest in the local library, though I did find some pamphlets for incest survivors. Those aren’t for me, though. I know it for sure, now. I want Dean. I want it. Maybe I’ve always wanted him, exactly in that way. The lack of information rules out my theory about me being perfectly normal. I didn’t really think so, anyway._

_Dad’s journal doesn’t mention anything about creatures that influence dreams. There’s djinns, of course, which make your dreams into near-reality, and there’s Sirens, which take the form of what you want and lure you with it. I haven’t been able to find any creatures that alters what you want. What would be the point of messing with that, anyway? People want what they want, and if you dangle it in front of them, they go a lot reckless and a little crazy._

_Case in point, I can’t stop thinking about Dean. I lay awake at night and often feel his erection bump into me under the covers. I get so hard I think I might cry. I want to give him everything, I want to mold myself into whatever he wants. I want him to own me. I want to be his._

_Since all of that is impossible, since I can never ever have any of it, I mostly just want to forget._

Dean felt hot and uncomfortable. He had never, up until this point, been very aware of his skin, but right now it felt too tight and small around his body. He thought he might suffocate in it, but he read on.

_September 2nd, 1998  
So, I managed to forget for a while. Dad’s out on a hunt and Dean spent the night somewhere else. I’m not going to think about where. I found a bottle of bourbon in the back of a cupboard. Dad never bothers to hide anything properly, because he doesn’t think we’d act out. I drank a lot of the bourbon. It was disgusting at first but got better after a while, and I managed to knock myself out pretty quickly. No dreams. The next day I told Dean I had the flu and he called off work to feed me chicken soup. I told him not to do it, but he just gets like that sometimes._

_I thought I’d found a fix with the bourbon but then he comes along with the soup and I’m in deeper than I thought before._

_It’s strange, though. I’ve always loved Dean. There has been Dean in my life since I can remember. I brought art projects home from school, excited about showing them to him. My science fair wasn’t complete without him. I told him about Angie Roberts. He tells me about mom. I love him, I have always loved him, with the endless tenacity of growing pains. I can feel how much I love him tugging at my bones, making my very structure tremble, and it’s a persistent ache. Sometimes I can forget about it for a second, I can be distracted, but it never disappears. It never lets me go._

_How long has this been going on without me noticing? I feel like an idiot._

_September 3rd, 1998  
School starts up again this week and I feel sick to my stomach. I will have to meet all of the new people, all of the teachers will ask me about my family and my hopes and dreams for the future. I won’t get to bring Dean his lunch. We’ve moved on from the last place we were at, and I won’t see miss Seaborn again, but I’ve already forgotten the name of the place we’re at now. It’s in Illinois, somewhere._

_September 4th, 1998  
Another dream, but this one was more distressing than the last one. I didn’t think that was possible. I was lying in bed with Dean, exactly the way we’d been when I closed my eyes that evening. In the dream, he was whispering things in my ear. _

_First it was absolute filth, which I could sort of handle. I mean, I fell apart, it was the hottest dream I’ve ever had. Hell, it was the hottest experience I’ve ever had, real or imagined. But then he started whispering other things, special things. Compliments, but like, in a way that was really intent and serious. He told me he loved me, and I knew, I just knew he didn’t mean the brotherly kind of love. I could tell that he meant it, too. When I woke up I’d already come, and then all of a sudden I was crying._

_I hid in the bathroom until the crying was over, and it was the shittiest I’ve ever felt. It’s so real. It’s like a weight on my shoulders, a prickle under my skin. It’s as inevitable as the sun in my eyes. I love him. I love him. And I end up distancing myself from him because of it._

_Worst of all, the dreams aren’t real._

At this point, Dean had started to cry soundlessly. He was praying Sam wouldn’t come home from wherever he was for a while, just so that Dean could read on and figure out his own feelings. Sam had been so sad for so long and Dean had never even known. It broke his heart.

_September 4th, 1998  
I’m writing this in the bathroom at school. I skipped algebra. Sue me. I already covered all that stuff three states ago. _

_I never understood how people could be lovesick. Love is a good emotion, right? A happy one? It makes you feel all fluttery and excited and energetic? Fuck that. You shouldn’t believe all of the things you hear. Being in love is the worst. I can’t sit still for three goddamn seconds. I’m always wondering where Dean is, what he’s doing, who he’s with. I’m always waiting for him to come pick me up from school, or to come home from work. Whatever I’m doing, I want him there to help me with it, and once he’s there I become completely useless._

_It’s pathetic because we’ve been around each other for fifteen years already, and I know I used to be able to use my brain and my hands and my mouth to perform basic tasks such as thinking and touching and talking for most of that time. Now, I can’t. When he looks at me, I lose my train of thought. When he’s close to me, things fall out of my hands, mugs break into pieces, homework ends up in a scattered pile on the floor, because I can’t hold on to them. When he talks to me, asks me how I’m doing or what I want for dinner or any of the other million things we used to discuss, my throat closes up._

_It’s terrible. I hate myself for how much I love it._

Dean hated himself too. It seemed like Sam loved him enough for both of them. Dean definitely loved Sam enough for both of them.

_September 5th 1998  
I came home from school today and Dean was asleep on the couch. He was barefoot, and his pointer toe is slightly longer than his big toe. I want to die. I probably will. Cause of death: I’m not sure, but it feels like being consumed by fire._

_September 6th 1998  
Something is wrong with me. Don’t think I don’t know that, because I do. I wonder whether it’s to do with hunting. Could this be something that happens when you’re always in the car? Does this happen to people who were practically raised by their siblings? I’m just grasping at straws here. I know I’m fucked._

_I’m going to go talk to a guidance counselor, I think._

_September 7th 1998  
Talked to the guidance counselor. She asked a bunch of irrelevant questions along the lines of where we lived before and what kind of work does Dad do and what happened to mom. I couldn’t tell her any of it, and even as I was saying absolutely nothing, I still felt like I was betraying Dean. If something’s wrong, we keep it in the family._

_I couldn’t go through with it. I just walked out halfway through the session. She has no idea how messed up I am._

_September 10th 1998  
I figured it out today. It’s so blatantly obvious I’m amazed I didn’t think of it before. I was injured on a hunt today. It was just some shards of glass in the palm of my hand, but Dean completely lost his shit. He still thinks I’m a child._

_That’s not the point, though. The point is the sharpness, the brightness, of glass shards piercing my skin. The pain lasted a while, and the whole time I wasn’t thinking about Dean. It felt like I was ridding myself of what was wrong with me, like the glass was cutting the dirty part of me out. Everything was clear and fuzzy at once. Pain can save me, I know it._

_Going to sleep now, I’m exhausted._

_September 11th 1998  
My hand is still all fucked up, I can’t even hold a pen, so I stayed home from school today. I took a long walk. It’s too soon, I decided, to make another cut, but I can scratch at the ones from yesterday and it’s almost as good. It hurts again, but in a dull way. Dull pain is the kind of pain I always feel when I look directly at Dean, so it’s not a relief, really._

_I know what Dean would say if he ever read this. Don’t think I don’t know. But when you’re drowning you don’t really give a shit what’s keeping you afloat._

Dean was full out sobbing now. He pulled up the sleeve from his left wrist and looked at the scratches he had made there with razorblades. They were a little older than this diary entry, made when Dean himself was sixteen years old. Sam had been only twelve. Dean still hated himself when he thought about those days, when Sam was still small and childlike and trusting, and Dean would sometimes clutch him to his lap a little too closely, and smell his hair and feel confused. He knew he would kill or die for Sam in a heartbeat, and there would never be anyone else for him. No one was ever as important as his little brother. And that was freakin’ insane.

_September 12th 1998, but only just. It’s a quarter past twelve  
I’m on the couch. Why do you think I’m on the couch? Guessed it in one; it’s because Dean’s in our bed fucking a random girl from a bar. I can mostly hear her high pitched noises and the slamming of the bed against the wall, but sometimes I can hear Dean, and every sound is like an electric shock to my system. I could know, I’ve actually been shocked with electricity a couple of times._

_Dad’s out on a hunt, of course. I don’t think Dean would bring a girl home otherwise. I wonder if that’s how I’d sound if Dean fucked me. I’m going to turn off the light now, I don’t want them to know I’m awake. I don’t understand how they can think I’d sleep through this, though._

_September 13th 1998  
What a wonderful surprise. The girl was still there when I woke up this morning. She’s not Dean’s usual type, curvy, with dark hair, dark eyes, and horn-rimmed glasses. She’s reading one of my books right now, still in my bed with my brother, while I’m on the couch._

_It’s not just any old book, either. She’s got her manicured fingers all over_ Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire. _If she tears any of the pages or bends the spine, I’ll kill her._

_The skin on my hands is all cracked and dry because I’ve been swimming in the lake. I can pull at it in some places around my cuticles, and it will bleed. If I press down on the places where it bleeds, the pain is sharp, and I can be away from the couch for a moment. It’s a Saturday, so I don’t have anywhere else to escape to. Just the tiny little droplets of blood welling up from under my skin. Those droplets are getting out, you know? They’re getting away. I’m still stuck here._

_September 13th, 1998, the afternoon  
The girl, Alice, said goodbye to me when she left. She asked me who my favorite Harry Potter character was, too. Dean’s out now, to get breakfast. I’ve already showered._

_Here’s the thing. The girl forgot something. It’s one of those frilly underthings girls wear in movies, a soft fabric with pink and white flowers on it. Does Dean like that sort of thing? Does he go hard when he sees a girl wearing it?_

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

_I put the nightgown thingy in my duffel._

_September 14th 1998  
A disaster almost happened today. I woke up, and Dean was lying next to me, and he was already awake. That almost never happens, because he’s the laziest guy in the world. But he was awake this time, and he was looking at me. Really looking, at every inch of skin. He even pulled down the sheet a bit to see more of my shoulders. I think he thought I was still asleep._

_I felt him looking at me, and I couldn’t bear it, so I opened my eyes. Except that didn’t stop him looking. All of a sudden, I felt like I was choking. I could feel the words coming up in my throat, and I almost couldn’t swallow them back down._

_“Dean, I love you. I have always loved you so, so much. How can you not know? Why can’t you see I’ll keep loving you just like this, like a wildfire, until there’s nothing left of me?”_

_I only got as far as “Dean, I,” before my throat closed up again and I felt myself start to cry. Dean left the bed then, said he had to take a leak, but I think he knows. He’s figured me out. It’s so obvious. I’m so obvious. He’ll hate me now, he’ll think I’m disgusting. He’ll tell dad and they’ll kill me, because I’m a monster._

Two rooms over, the screen door slammed. Sam was home. Shit. Dean wiped his eyes and blew his nose in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It was already sweaty and disgusting and it had motor oil stains all over, so who gave a fuck. Hastily, he stuffed the spiral notebook back in the duffel, and got up to greet Sam in the kitchen.

“Hey there, dude. How was school?”

Sam gave him a withering look. “Well, it was just great, Dean, what did you expect?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. Not good, then.

“Wanna talk about it?” he tried, but Sam had already gone into their bedroom and slammed the door shut.

He was back not a minute later though, all color now drained from his face.

“Dean,” he said, looking at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. “Have you seen my notebook?”

 _Shit._ Don’t give yourself away, Winchester. You’re a world-class hunter and a pool hustler, your pokerface can fool anyone. Not Sammy, though, never Sam.

“No,” he’d aimed for casual but it came out a bit strangled. “Where’d you see it last?”

Sam had started to go red, and he looked up now. He’d figured it out. “In my duffel, Dean. My notebook is _always_ in my duffel.”

“Well,” Dean leaned against the doorway, trying to make his body language casual, and made sure to meet Sam’s eyes. That was convincing lying 101; always look them in the eye. 

“Are you sure it isn’t in there? Or did it get mixed in with your homework?”

“No. It didn’t.”

“Why don’t you go check?”

“Because it’s not fucking there, Dean! I left it in my duffel this morning, in the front pocket, and now it’s gone!” Sam was completely red now, shaking with anger, his voice raised.

“Well, Sammy,” that was a low blow. He knew the nickname annoyed Sam. “Notebooks don’t usually go off on their own. Why don’t you check again?”

That had been a stupid thing to do, to infuriate Sam further, when Dean knew perfectly well what had happened. He’d put the notebook back in the wrong duffel. Sam was lightning-fast, checked the front pocket of his duffel then rounded up on Dean again.

“It’s _not there_! Where the fuck is my notebook, Dean?”

“Calm down,” Dean said, making his voice soft and soothing even though he was everything but calm himself. “Look in your book bag before you have a full-fledged bitching episode.”

Sam stomped off in the direction of the living room to rummage through his backpack, which was exactly what Dean had been aiming for. He dashed into the bedroom, took the notebook out of his own duffel and yelled: “It’s right here!”

Sam was by his side in an instant. 

“Where was it?” he was breathless with relief.

“Under the bed, geek boy,” Dean explained. “What’s so important about this notebook anyway?”

He only asked because it was what he would have done, if he had been a normal brother. If Sam and him had been normal brothers. Sam turned bright red again, snatched the notebook from Dean’s outstretched hand and stomped off.

***********************************************************************************

For a few days, Dean managed to keep himself away from Sam’s diary. The temptation, the pull of it, was amazingly strong, but he thought of the hurt look on Sam’s face when he’d though Dean had stolen it, and exercised restraint. He was terrified, absolutely terrified, that Sam still suspected he’d read it, and that this was a breach of confidence from which their relationship would never recover.

It didn’t exactly help that Dean had been forced to stop reading in medias res. Sam had put Alice’s undergarment in his duffel, but what had happened next? Dean was ashamed to admit that he hardly remembered Alice, but based on Sam’s description he did remember her nightgown. It wasn’t exactly a nightgown, though. If he remembered correctly she’d already been wearing it under her dress when he brought her home with him. 

Why did Sam keep it? Was it still in his duffel? He could check. He could just check really quickly, and no one would ever know. But what on earth would Sam hang onto an old piece of lingerie for, one that had belonged to a girl he professed to dislike? Dean didn’t check.

He thought of Sam hanging on to it, though. He considered the possibility of Sam pressing his nose into the fabric, hoping to smell Dean’s smell. The notion was ridiculous. They shared a bed, they knew each other’s smells almost too well.

_September 15th 1998  
It smells like him a bit. Mostly it smells the way fabric always does, clean and starchy, but I can also smell Dean. Of course, I buried my nose in it for ages and ages trying to hold on to the scent. I think he fucked her in it._

_I’ve locked myself in the bathroom with the undergarment and my diary, and as I’m writing this my dick is impossibly hard. I know what I’m going to do now. No one’s home, so I can._

_I’ve put on the thing. Wikipedia says it’s a negligee. It looks weird on me because I’m so slender, but it feels nice on my skin. Soft and swishy. It’s about the right size. Alice is older than me, but I’m taller and I don’t have boobs. My cock is still hard and you can see it through the fabric, sticking up. It’s a little wet at the tip. God, this is so hot. Oh my God. Imagine if Dean saw this. Imagine if Dean read this diary entry._

_I’m going to jerk off now. I won’t even pretend I won’t be thinking about Dean while I do it._

Dean’s cheeks were hot. His palms were sweaty. His cock was so hard in his tight jeans that he couldn’t quite sit still from the pressure. _Sam had worn that thing._ Even better, or in a way worse, he had gotten off on it. He had gotten off on making himself pretty for Dean. Jesus.

The guilt at reading Sam’s personal diary hit him in another strong wave. He was such a selfish asshole, and a pervert to boot. The fact that Sam had fantasized about him reading this didn’t mean he’d ever wanted it to happen. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. People thought about all kinds of kinky shit that they never wanted to happen for real.

Dean went into the bathroom and jerked off quickly and roughly, trying to punish himself with mechanical, pleasureless strokes, expelling all of his dirty, wrong, guilty, horrible thoughts in a quick, unsatisfying orgasm.

After the first time Dean had jerked off while fantasizing about his brother, it was time to make a choice. He could either fight his feelings the way he’d been taught, with stone-cold all-encompassing Winchester denial, or he could face facts and admit, at the very least to himself, that he was a fucked up son of a bitch. For the next few days, he kept going back and forth between the two options.

He made a conscious effort not to touch Sam; not to pat his shoulder, not to brush a hand through his hair, not to lie close to him at night. If Sam noticed it he didn’t let on, but the physical distance was hard on Dean. He was conscious of every missed opportunity, every inch of bare, tanned, smooth skin he _wasn’t_ putting his hands on. The plan wasn’t to make him want it even more, damn it. He was so fucked.

Three days after the beginning of Dean’s self-imposed no-touching rule, all hell broke loose. The worst kinds of hell are the ones where nothing happens, and everything is quiet, but inside your head the old you dies and is replaced by an entirely new person. That’s what happened to Dean on the morning of August 26th of the year 2000. Nothing was happening, and then, everything was happening all at once.

He was standing by the stove, frying some bacon, and Sam came out of bed into the kitchen. He was wearing a thin, gray t-shirt, old and previously Dean’s. He was badly in need of a haircut and greasy wisps of his fringe were tickling his eyebrows. His eyes were fuzzy and sleepy and he didn’t really look at Dean, just groaned happily at the smell of bacon and went to pour himself some cereal.

Just as Sam sat down and brought the spoonful of Froot Loops to his lips, Dean burnt his fingers on the frying pan.

He had made the mistake of looking over at Sammy, beautiful, sweet, sleepy Sammy, soft around the edges and so fragile and gorgeous that Dean wasn’t sure he’d survive it. He turned back to the stove and everything clicked; _this_ was love. This feeling, this soft, gentle hurricane of ice and fire and fear and elation, was everything Jane Austen had written about, and it seemed, now, that she had written it especially for them.

Sam was _everything._ He was everything in the whole wide world. Sam was more important than air and food and family and hunts and the Impala. Sam was more important than Dad, even, and it made Dean blush guiltily to think it. He loved Sam so much that he didn’t know how he could have missed it for so long.

He turned around and flipped the strips of bacon onto a plate, offering them to Sam with a grin that was, perhaps, a bit too broad. Now there was only the matter of telling Sam. Dean swallowed down his fear and looked at the eager way Sam ate his breakfast.

************************************************  
The elation lasted for the rest of the day. Dean was besides himself with joy, giggly and floaty and all-out ridiculous, and he told Sam his good mood was because of the weekend, and the weather, and pretty much every excuse he could think of.

Over the course of the evening, Dean’s happiness deflated. He was finally clear on what he wanted, yes, and that was something, but the prospect of confronting Sam was so terrifying that it made his breathe hitch just thinking about it. He was a disgusting pervert for having any sort of sexual thoughts about his younger brother, even if these thoughts were infused with reverence and love and adoration. He wasn’t fooling himself into thinking that made everything okay.

There was also the horrible possibility that Sam’s feelings towards him could have changed over the last two years. Two years was a long time to yearn for someone if you honestly believed you never stood a chance with them. Any self-preservation instinct Sam has would have told him to disentangle himself from Dean. Then again, Sammy really wasn’t one for self-preservation.

In spite of this paralyzing uncertainty, Dean didn’t want to read any more of Sam’s diary entries. He’d already betrayed Sam’s trust in a very basic way, he was going to fess up to everything honestly and just hope and pray to whatever was out there that Sam would forgive him, and that he still felt the same about Dean. _“I’ll keep loving you just like this, like a wildfire, until there’s nothing left of me,”_ Dean’s brain helpfully supplied, and the words, which had been written in Sam’s tidy lettering in the ruffled spiral notebook, gave him a bit more confidence.  
Reading Sam’s diary had been wrong, he knew it, but he’d been able to justify it to himself as long as he only did it to restore their relationship. He’d told himself he only did it to regain his understanding of Sam, to get back the almost telepathic connection they’d shared as kids. A few diary entries later, he was reading to untangle the wet hot slippery mess of feelings welling up inside of him, and then he’d just been reading because he couldn’t not. But now that he’d figured himself out, it was time to man up and fess up. He was only waiting for the right moment.

The right moment came and went. It came again, and went again, and still Dean could not gather up his courage. Each right moment looked something like this: it was when Dad was away, would be for at least a few more days, but not much longer in case Sam reacted poorly to Dean’s confession. So they were alone, and Sam appeared relaxed and relatively un-moody. There was some alcohol in Dean’s system, but not enough to make him lose focus, and the TV was on for background noise.

“Sammy?”

Wrong word. Wrong word. The nickname rubbed Sam the wrong way. This wasn’t going to be the night.

“Yeah, Dean?”

“Nothing, dude. Scoot over.”

Then they’d cuddle, the way they used to as kids, and it was almost enough to make Dean spill out the white hot confession burning on his tongue, but not quite. If he said it, he might never sit next to his brother like this again. So he didn’t.

************************************************************************************

When, at last, it happened, it was easy. They were actually in the Impala, following behind Dad, who was in his truck, heading towards Nebraska. Sam was scribbling in the spiral notebook, and Dean was looking at the road, and at the way Sam’s hair covered his eyes a little, and his long legs didn’t quite fit in the footwell, hadn’t for years.

“Sam?”

Sam didn’t look up, but that was okay. Dean was looking at the road.

“I’m in love with you.” He was Dean Winchester, not a man of many words. This was the truth, he was going to be upfront about it.

Sam looked up at him now, openly stared, his mouth open a little. He forced out a chuckle.

“Dean, I…”

A beat.

Sam tried again. “Is this a joke?”

His voice was a little higher than usual, like he was choking back tears. Cursing his own rashness, Dean pulled over onto the shoulder and made sure to look Sam right in the eye.

“It’s not a joke, Sam. I am in love with you. Sweaty hands, heart palpitations, can’t concentrate, the whole nine yards.”

Sam was still looking at him with the big brown eyes and a broad grin. Dean leaned over and kissed him. Sammy’s lips were chapped and a little clumsy, but he was so, so eager, leaned towards Dean to take in his scent, and made a little noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t pull away, Dean didn’t pull away, and then it was a tentative touching of tongues, such a sweet sensation that Dean thought maybe he was dreaming. Wet, too. Wet, because Sam was crying. Dean pulled away, then.

“Hey, hey hey. Sammy, look at me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought… Oh God, Sam, I’m so sorry. Please look at me?”

But Sam was crying softly, looking at his shoes.

“I’m moving to Palo Alto next year. I got accepted into Stanford.”

Dean was speechless.

Dad was miles ahead of them by now, but Dean was sure he could think of a convincing lie to explain their delay. There was a lump in his throat, but he was mostly relieved that Sam hadn’t called him a disgusting pervert yet.

“Oh. I’m so goddamned fucking proud of you, Sammy.”

Now Sam met Dean’s eyes. He looked even more disbelieving than before, when Dean had suddenly leaned over to kiss him.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat. “You’re amazing. You’ll do so well. I have some savings in an account, I always meant for you to have them on your eighteenth birthday.”

“I got a full ride.”

Dean gaped at him. “My incredible little brother,” he muttered, more for himself than for Sam.

“So,” he cupped Sam’s cheek gently with one hand, and stroked his thumb over the sharp jaw. He wanted to kiss Sam, right there. He wanted to kiss him everywhere. He kissed him again. Softly, briefly, on the mouth, then on his nose, his forehead, both his cheeks and his eyelids. He gently wiped away the drying tears and looked and looked and drank his little brother in, and thought, just for a split second, that they would never have to catch up with Dad.

“Sammy?” Nothing was as hard as not kissing Sam once he knew what kissing Sam was like, but there was one more thing. “I read your notebook.”

Sam looked over at him and, to Dean’s great surprise, began to laugh.

“What’s funny?

“It’s just that… oh God, Dean, I’ve kind of been meaning for you to find it, actually.”

Dean was speechless.

“I had to tell you before I left, you had to know. But I couldn’t look you in the eye and say it, Dean.”

“Say what, exactly?”

“That I love you.”

Dean shivered a little. “But then, why were you crying just now?”

“Because I really am going to Palo Alto. And I’m in love with you, I love you so much, but we can’t be together there.”

Sam loved him. _Sam_ loved him. Sam _loved_ him. Sam loved _him._

“Why can’t we, Sammy? Why can’t we be together there?”

Sam just looked at him. Dean raised his eyebrows. “What? They don’t have hunts in California? They don’t have auto repair shops and burgers with onions and fries? ‘Cos if they don’t, I’ll still come with you. You’re more important to me than all those things.”

Sam immediately leapt over the console and vaulted himself into Dean’s lap, his grin bigger and more genuine than Dean had ever seen. His eyes were carefree. And then they were kissing again.

_July 20th 2000  
I was right. Kissing Dean feels like infinity. His lips are so gorgeous. I’ve probably written more in this diary about Dean’s lips than about anything else, but there’s a good reason for that. I mean, have you seen them? What happened was this:_

_We were in the Impala, a couple of miles behind Dad, and all of a sudden he told me he was in love with me. I thought for sure I hadn’t heard him right, but his eyes were serious. Serious, and so motherfucking green I thought it would kill me._

_So then I couldn’t keep it in a second longer, I told him about Stanford, and I felt like the biggest idiot in the world. I just got the one thing I’d always wanted, and in one sentence I’d already managed to alienate and anger him again. Except he wasn’t angry. He was proud. I didn’t really believe he loved me like that until he told me he was proud of me._

_Here’s the biggest thing though; he’s coming with me to Stanford._

_I can’t quite believe it._

_We made out in the car for a really long time, and when we caught up to Dad Dean told him we had a flat, but I was so giggly I don’t really think he believed us. Don’t know what he believed, though._

_I’ve been hard since Dean leaned in to me and it occurred to me that this was it; that he was going to kiss me with those lips. My groin aches from wanting and my jaw aches from smiling. Also, we’re sharing a bed tonight. Oh God. Oh my God we’re sharing a bed tonight._

They did share a bed that night. After a quick Chinese take out meal both boys pleaded exhaustion from the long drive and, Dean added, the terrible ordeal of the Impala’s flat tire, and they disappeared together into their room.

Sam, who had been hungry for Dean and wanting and just all-out fucking pining for years, was surprised by the force with which Dean kissed him. He could feel all of the desire that had built up inside him over time, all of the ways it had made him feel dirty and wrong and _so fucking good_ all at once, reflected at him from Dean. He could tell by the way Dean was clutching at his neck with blunt fingernails that they were in this together, that however fucked up and destructive and perverted Sam was, he would never be alone again. He allowed Dean to press him against the door, to trap him between his arms, and pulled him even closer with both feet hooked around his hips. 

There it was. It was a quick flash of friction, clumsy and muted by the fabric of their jeans, but Sam went absolutely insane with lust. He whined into Dean’s mouth and started grappling at his belt buckle to get to his cock. 

“Shhh,” Dean’s mouth was so deliciously close to his ear. His breath was hot. “Shh, little brother. Don’t rush it. There’s no hurry, baby.”

He said “baby” in a way that made Sam glad he wasn’t standing on his own two feet just then. He whimpered a little more, tried to get closer to Dean, but he wasn’t quite in control of his muscles. His skin was buzzing and he though he would _die_ , just _die_ , if Dean didn’t get his hands all over him soon.

It should be no surprise that Dean enjoyed pleasing Sammy, making him happy and putting Sam’s needs before his own. Wasn’t that the way it worked in all of their relationship? So Dean laid Sam down gently on the bed and started kissing down Sam’s body, from his mouth over his chin onto his jaw, and lingering at the nape of his neck for so, so long but never long enough.

Sam became aware that he was making little noises, sounds of pleasure and pleading and mostly just Dean’s name. He pulled at Dean’s shoulders with sweaty hands, trying to get Dean’s mouth on his own or get it further down; he couldn’t choose; pictured Dean’s lips around his cock and whined a little.

“It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay,” Dean whispered, his breath hot against Sam’s abdomen, where he was just the slightest bit ticklish. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here with you, baby boy. I’m going to give you everything you want, whatever you want. What do you want, baby?”

It took Sam a moment to respond to that, his mind reeling with all of the possibilities, all of the thing he wanted that he could now have and he couldn’t quite believe it yet. The list at the back of his notebook poped into his head, and he wondered whether Dean had read it.

“Can I suck your cock?” The words were out before he knew it.

Dean stilled suddenly, and for one ice-cold terrifying moment Sam thought he screwed up, until Dean said, in a mock put-upon tone: “But I wanted to do something for _you._ ”

Sam couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Dean…” Now he was really feeling shy, but it was important to be honest. “I desperately want to do it. Can I put my mouth on you, please, please?” He rolled his hips and let his hard-on press against Dean, just to emphasize how badly he wanted it. 

Dean relented, rolled off of Sam’s body and pulled his jeans down. Sam couldn’t hide his grin. He stilled Dean’s hand before the boxers came off, just looking at the midnight blue fabric and the bulge and the wet spot at the tip, and his mouth watered. Slowly, slowly, he pulled the boxers down.

Dean’s cock is as fucking pretty as the rest of him, Sam thought. It was long and slender and smooth and the most appealing shade of pink and Sam stuck his tongue out to taste and thought yes, because Dean made a little noise that Sam has wanted to hear forever, and the taste wasn’t bad at all. He went slowly, telling himself it was to tease Dean, but it was actually an exploration; he had no idea what the hell he was doing, and he needed to take his cue from Dean’s breathing, the twitching motions of his hips and his long slender fingers gently petting Sam’s hair. As far as he could tell, he was doing a bang-up job, because Dean came quickly, yelping out “Sam, Sam, Sam” and trying to pull him off but Sam was determined to swallow, and he did.

He watched Dean’s face as he came, eyes scrunched shut and mouth open. This had been way more satisfying than Sam had ever imagined. He waited for Dean to float down from his post-coital cloud and enjoyed the ache of his own cock in his jeans. Would Dean? Would he?

“Lie down, Sammy.”

Dean started off by kissing Sam’s neck again, in that one insane spot behind his ear and Sam thought, fleetingly, of all the people who go about their lives every day. Do they know, do they have any idea, that sex feels like this? That it makes your skin buzz and your heart throb and your brain log off? If they do, what the fuck is anyone ever doing out of bed?

“Oh God, Dean, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Dean had kissed and nibbled his way down Sam’s chest, pulled Sam’s boxers down and was now nosing at his shaft, licking up the thick vein on the underside, and then, gently, so gently, took Sam’s cock head in his mouth. It was so incredible that Sam could feel tears well up in the corners of his eyes. He struggled to keep his eyes from blurring and looked down at Dean’s face, his mouth stretched open so wide and his green eyes glinting with mischief. In the next moment, Sam came.There was no time to warn Dean, but he didn’t need to because Dean swallowed, and swallowed again, and didn’t choke once.

“Oooooh,” Sam’s voice was hoarse from moaning, his whole body tingling with aftershocks of pleasure and he was completely flabbergasted by the intensity of it.

Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “Good, huh?”

Sam couldn’t respond, but there was no need to anyway. Dean ran a hand up Sam’s slender side, tweaked a nipple until Sam squeaks, and whispered; “There’s loads more where that came from, baby boy.”

**************************************************************************

On the last page of the notebook, and continued onto the back cover, was an untitled list. The writing turned smaller and smaller with each item, as though Sam was afraid he’d never have enough space for all of it. It took him exactly three months in Palo Alto to show the list to Dean, and by then they’d crossed off a lot of its goals already.

  * For Dean to kiss me until I can’t breathe. 
  * For Dean to hold my hand somewhere public, without anyone knowing we’re brothers. 
  * To make out with Dean in the back of a movie theatre. 
  * To wake Dean up by blowing him. 
  * To blow him in a truckstop bathroom. 
  * To show him that stupid _negligee_ and have him fuck me in it. How fast do you think he’ll forget the name of that girl it belonged to?
  * To kiss his neck until there’s a big red hickey where anyone could see. Dad would think he got it off some random girl, but it would actually be mine. 
  * I want to blow him in a diner while he eats a slice of pie. I just really, really, really want to blow him all the time. 
  * To fuck him. Do you think he’d let me? I’d let him do it to me. I would. Any way he wanted. I would do anything for him. 
  * Okay, yeah, I kind of want to buy him something for Valentine’s Day. Sue me. 
  * I want to cook him dinner, too. 
  * I want to be the big spoon. 
  * But I want to be the little spoon even more. 
  * If he gets hurt on a hunt, I want to kiss the bandages after I’ve applied them. 
  * I want him to wear make-up for me. Lipgloss, and mascara too. Fucking eyeliner. Green eyeshadow, can you imagine? 
  * I want to bake gingerbread together next Christmas, like we did that one time in Delaware. 
  * I want to blow him while he’s driving the Impala. 
  * I want him to fuck me in the backseat of the Impala. Also, I never ever want him to fuck anyone else in there ever again. I don’t want him to fuck anyone but me, anywhere. 
  * I want him to fuck me over the hood of the car, too. 
  * I want to play Truth or Dare, and wring every single dirty little twisted fantasy Dean has ever had out of him. Then, I want to make them all come true. 
  * I want him to wash my hair.* *in the shower or in a bathtub together, I’m not picky. 
  * I want to take him on a picnic on a sunny afternoon, and I want to lie in the grass and listen to his heartbeat and watch his nose get sunburned. 
  * I want to cuddle on the couch while we watch _The Big Lebowski_
  * I want the first time I get _really_ drunk to be with Dean. 
  * One day, I want us to own a dog together. 



**Author's Note:**

>  **End Notes** This is the babydoll Sam wears (I pictured the one in the Pinky Cheeks color): [Babydoll](https://www.victoriassecret.com/lingerie/babydolls-and-slips/pleated-babydoll-very-sexy?cm_sp=&ProductID=229715&CatalogueType=OLS)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] The Spiral Notebook](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073816) by [Nonexistenz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonexistenz/pseuds/Nonexistenz)




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